In the afternoons I walk and visit my hundred relations, who are all
kind and friendly, and seem interested in our various successes.

Sunday evenings I go to Parker's parlor, and there meet Phillips,
Garrison, Scherb, Sanborn, and many other pleasant people. All talk,
and I sit in a corner listening, and wishing a certain placid,
gray-haired gentleman was there talking, too. Mrs. Parker calls on me,
reads my stories, and is very good to me. Theodore asks Louisa "how
her worthy parents do," and is otherwise very friendly to the large,
bashful girl who adorns his parlor steadily.

Abby is preparing for a busy and, I hope, a profitable winter. She has
music lessons already, French and drawing in store, and, if her eyes
hold out, will keep her word and become what none of us can be, "an
accomplished Alcott." Now, dear Father, I shall hope to hear from you
occasionally, and will gladly answer all epistles from the Plato, whose
parlor parish is becoming quite famous. I got the _Tribune_ but not
the letter, and shall look it up. I have been meaning to write, but
did not know where you were.

Good-bye, and a happy birthday from your ever-loving child,

LOUISA.


[_Journal_]

_January, 1857_.--Had my first new silk dress from good little L. W.;
very fine; and I felt as if all the Hancocks and Quincys beheld me as I
went to two parties in it on New Year's eve.